All posts by Eric Robert Nolan

Eric Robert Nolan graduated from Mary Washington College in 1994 with a Bachelor of Science in Psychology. He spent several years a news reporter and editorial writer for the Culpeper Star Exponent in Culpeper, Virginia. His work has also appeared on the front pages of numerous newspapers in Virginia, including The Free Lance – Star and The Daily Progress. Eric entered the field of philanthropy in 1996, as a grant writer for nonprofit healthcare organizations. Eric’s poetry has been featured by Dead Beats Literary Blog, Dagda Publishing, The International War Veterans’ Poetry Archive, and elsewhere. His poetry will also be published by Illumen Magazine in its Spring 2014 issue.

Ice, Ice, Maybe.

I just tried to order a Slushie without ice, because I am so used to ordering my sodas that way, and also because I am a f***ing imbecile.

“Well … they’re MADE with ice,” the polite high schooler explained apologetically.

This reminds me of that time in my 20’s when I ordered from the Taco Bell drive-thru but drove right through with getting my order, because reasons.



“I predict that the dividing line will not be Mason and Dixon’s …”

“If we are to have another contest in the near future of our national existence, I predict that the dividing line will not be Mason and Dixon’s, but between patriotism and intelligence on the one side, and superstition, ambition, and ignorance on the other.”

—  Ulysses S. Grant, speech at the Annual Reunion of the Army of the Tennessee in Des Moines, Iowa, on Sept. 29, 1875



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“At midnight in the month of June, I stand beneath the mystic moon.”

At midnight in the month of June,
I stand beneath the mystic moon.
An opiate vapour, dewy, dim,
Exhales from out her golden rim,
And, softly dripping, drop by drop,
Upon the quiet mountain top.
Steals drowsily and musically
Into the univeral valley.
The rosemary nods upon the grave;
The lily lolls upon the wave;
Wrapping the fog about its breast,
The ruin moulders into rest;
Looking like Lethe, see! the lake
A conscious slumber seems to take,
And would not, for the world, awake.

— excerpt from “The Sleeper,” by Edgar Allan Poe 



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